


High Apple Pie Hopes

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel Goes Shopping, Castiel in the Bunker, Fluff, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Sam Is So Done, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Cas, you okay?” he asked, voice slightly lowered once she was out of sight. He could easily peek over the stall, but he doubted Cas was in any real danger in a ten by ten closet. “Cas?”</p><p>The lock clicked. Sam stepped back as Cas came out, adorning the beige, long sleeve Henley and the ball-gripping pants from a moment earlier. Aside from the suspicious stain on the left lapel and the right sleeve a little too high on his scabbed elbow (stoves were not for daydreamers), he looked good. Really good. Like holy tax accountant who shed his work clothes to go clubbing at Dean’s favorite venue good.</p><p>Or the one where Sam uses Cas to get back at his brother and learns a few things along the way. Inspired by another fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Apple Pie Hopes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [tunnel vision](https://archiveofourown.org/works/768798) by [clockworkrobots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots). 



> The fic this was inspired by was written in 2013 (can be read alone), therefore this is slightly tweaked to fit s10 ideas and issues - Destiel still not CANON being one of them. Anyway. Castiel's clothes, new and old, reflect clockworkrobots's fic. Anything that's left is part of my landfill. Hopefully I did their fic justice.
> 
> And now, I give you, my headcanon to the prelude of "tunnel vision" by clockworkrobots.

“They’re a little, uh…”

“Tight?” Sam scoffed.

“I was going to say circulation-cutting,” Cas retorted, short of breath as he fiddled with the waistband for some relief. If he didn’t know any better, Sam would’ve thought Cas was some nine-to-fiver coerced by his coworkers to go on a bender shortly after Thanksgiving. “I’ll go put it back on the rack—”

“No.”

Castiel did the squinty thing with his eyes. “What? Why?”

“I mean, uh, no,” he harrumphed. Thankfully, his eyes landed on a beige Henley. “Try this on first.” Cas walked out of the stall a few moments later in _just_ the beige flannel. “Dude, this is a family store.” Sam sent him back in with the roll of his eyes and a few peculiar looks from passing customers.

“Weren’t we going grocery shopping?” Cas asked as he, judging by the series of grunts and moans, shimmied back into his pants.

“Clothes are part of shopping, Cas.”

A second passed, then a mumbled: “If you say so.”

Sam laughed under his breath. Here he was at a Goodwill outlet with an angel who gave up his own good will for the sake of humanity—and what else stank of humanity more than a low-end Stein Mart next to a Chinese shop. In truth, this was Sam’s payback for the time Dean held his toothbrush hostage under his rank armpit and ass-kissing his pillow (which is _not_ memory foam and will need to be replaced once the cool side of his pillow gets toasty).

Then again, he’s trying to get his brother get laid, so technically he’s helping him. Damnit.

“Do you need help finding something, sir?”

Sam snapped his head to a graying woman in a royal blue get-up. “Oh, no ma’am, thank you. I’m just here with a friend of mine. He’s in the changing rooms right now.”

“Could I interest you in our couples special?” she replied, the wrinkles around her mouth ironing out, “buy two shirts of equal value and get a second pair free.”

Sam huffed out a laugh as he turned to the lady with gritted teeth and a forced smile. “You got me. We just can’t deny our love. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” He knocked the stall door, praying Cas would go along with it. (Hey, it was a steal. The Winchesters were homebodies now.) A few seconds later came Cas’s muffled voice:

“Sam, the zipper is stuck.”

The worker hummed, “I’ll be at register 6.”

“Cas, you okay?” he asked, voice slightly lowered once she was out of sight. He could easily peek over the stall, but he doubted Cas was in any real danger in a ten by ten closet. “Cas?”

The lock clicked. Sam stepped back as Cas came out, adorning the beige, long sleeve Henley and the ball-gripping pants from a moment earlier. Aside from the suspicious stain on the left lapel and the right sleeve a little too high on his scabbed elbow (stoves were not for daydreamers), he looked good. _Really_ good. Like holy tax accountant who shed his work clothes to go clubbing at Dean’s favorite venue good.

Nonetheless— “There’s something missing.”

“I saw a pair of suspenders.”

Sam’s lips twitched into a smile. Somehow, between the Pimpmobile and The Wire(“Baltimore is a highly underestimated city _,_ did you know people sell high-end drugs on street corners? _Street corners!”),_ Cas managed to develop his own style—even if the style wasn’t in _this_ age. “Go for it.”

Cas came back with brown and purple-hued suspenders and, as he gleamed with delight while the elderly lady swiped the rest of their items ( _more_ flannel, seriously, at the rate they’ve been going and with the addition of Cas, they should sell secondhand clothes too), Sam couldn’t help but feel proud of putting it there.

It wasn’t until he revved the Impala and adjusted her mirror that he noticed a bulky bag tucked in the back. “Cas, is that your trenchcoat?”

“Yes. It served me well, but,”—he glanced down at his hand-me-down Henley. “Well, as they say on _The Wire,_ look the part be the part, motherfucker.” Sam chuckled once for the uncouth language, and twice in an I-know-something-you-don’t-know manner. Cas pursed his lips. “What?”

The youngest shook his head. “Nothing, it’s just Dean is gonna _kill_ you. You’re not sick of the tie too, are you?”

“No, it’s in my bedroom drawer. Sam, what’s so—?”

“Good. I’ll never hear the end of it.” _He only kept the damn thing for over a year,_ he thought, but decided some things, no matter how sweet the revenge might taste, are better left untouched. “What say you some rock?”

“I’m actually quite fond of Sinatra—if you don’t mind, of course.” Sam grinned.

“Not at all,” he said, changing the station and letting his mind be capacitated by Sinatra’s “High Hopes”, and for once, Sam couldn’t disagree with the radio.

 

 


End file.
